


place the call, feel it start

by snoopypez



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, mentioned lydia/malia, puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3939442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez/pseuds/snoopypez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s a story here, because of course there is, and it started just a couple hours earlier. Back when things were easy and Scott wasn’t going to have to consider moving to another state to pretend this never happened.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>or: Scott wants to lick Stiles’s neck, and a <i>lot</i> of pizza is consumed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. slice to meet you

**Author's Note:**

> the wonderful fanmix based on this work is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3928714), by the lovely dapatty! thank you for the creation, friend!
> 
> also HUGE huge thanks to angelina for beta-ing, to loz for readthrough and suggestions and puns, to so many other people for hand-holding (and more puns) and support that I could actually finish a story longer than 2000 words.
> 
>  
> 
> lastly, this is based on [this post](http://skittlestrash.tumblr.com/private/101072557730/tumblr_mkhkxo07mG1rta5mj) because it is the greatest.

“Okay, I love you.”

“ _Love you, too._ ”

To say that the pause that occurs after this _totally accidental_ exchange is awkward would be such an understatement that it could appear in the dictionary under...examples of understatements. (It’s difficult to think of metaphors under this kind of stress.)

In fact, to say that the pause that occurs after this ( _absolutely normal if he had been talking to his mom_ ) exchange is _just_ awkward would be almost hilarious, and if Scott weren’t so mortified, he might laugh.

There’s a story here, because of course there is, and it started just a couple hours earlier. Back when things were easy and Scott wasn’t going to have to consider moving to another state to pretend this never happened.

Home from a full day of classes, and tired out from cleaning around the house so his mom wouldn’t have to, Scott had decided to order himself a pizza. A perfectly innocent, sane decision, even if he hadn’t somehow managed to schedule all the most difficult courses for the same day and was looking at pulling an all-nighter on an essay. Pizza is a God-given right for college students, which is doubly true for those going the into medical field.

(Growing up, Scott wanted to be a doctor. Well, that’s not entirely true; he wanted to be a nurse, like his mother. But after years of ‘inoffensive, off-the-cuff’ comments from his father about how nursing is for women _and it paid horribly_ , Scott would be ashamed to say he caved under the pressure and judgement, changing his tune and disappointing his mother, though she never said a word about it.

Then his dick of a father left them and it was as if Scott woke from a hazy, sexist dream.

No one can be around Melissa McCall for long without realizing that nurses are badass, and so Scott gladly went back to his original plan. He would _not_ be ashamed to say his mother is his hero.)

So. Scott took a well-earned break and dialed up _That’s Amore!_ , a fairly new place he had heard some good things about. He likes to give lesser-known, unestablished businesses a try, both because he likes finding new gems and because everyone deserves a fair chance.

Next time maybe he’ll just stick with what he knows.

Because here he is, trapped in what feels like an hour of silence, and he should really just _hang up_ before more damage is done. He’s just about convinced himself to do it when--

“ _Uh, I hope you’re not expecting a discount or something just because we confessed our undying love. I’m not that easy._ ”

It’s not that Scott is _dumb_ or can’t pick up on a joke. It’s just that he’s a little busy being embarrassed, so while he would normally just chuckle good-naturedly and move on from such a comment, this time he finds himself stuttering.

“I would _never_ try to do that, I swear!”

The other guy laughs, but it doesn’t sound mean.

“ _Bet you say that every time you get caught. If I ask around the competition, I’ll learn you’re in love with twenty other pizza...phone...guys. Okay, that kinda lost a little of what I was going for there in the end but--_ ”

There’s yelling on the other end of the line, and Scott hopes he didn’t get this guy in trouble.

“ _Yeah okay thanks for calling_ That’s Amore _you can expect your pizza in twenty minutes or less,_ ” the guy says in one breath, then adds, “ _but don’t get your hopes up; have a great day bye._ ”

And he hangs up before Scott can say another word.

*

Scott and his mother live in a quiet neighborhood that doesn’t get much traffic. That means it’s pretty easy to hear any cars that pass by. It probably doesn’t hurt that he’s been listening intently for the past eighteen and a quarter minutes since he got off the phone, but even so, the running engine in the driveway would be hard to miss.

It’s stupid, it’s _so stupid_ , but Scott feels nervous. He has to stop himself from rushing; force himself to wait for a knock.

When it comes, he trips over an end table that’s been there since he was like five years old, but he finally gets to the door, opening it to a tall boy around his age. He has curly hair and Scott’s thinking the guy’s kind of cute before he speaks.

“Pepperoni and green pepper.” He sounds bored and has a weird sort of lilt in his tone; definitely not the guy that took Scott’s order.

Which...now seems obvious. Why would the phone guy be delivering the pizzas, too? _Stupid._ Scott’s a little disappointed, but mostly he’s relieved. In a disappointed sort of way.

He realizes he’s just staring at the pizza guy, who looks very much like he’s about to sigh with exasperation and possibly keep the pizza for himself.

“Oh, yeah!” Scott hands over the money, adding sincerely, “Yeah, sorry about that.”

It’s only after shutting the door behind him and bringing his pizza into the kitchen that he wonders why exactly he was even disappointed or relieved in the first place. He doesn’t _know_ the guy on the other end of the phone. They only spoke for a couple minutes.

He had a nice voice, though. And now that Scott no longer feels the in-the-moment embarrassment, he remembers that the guy was funny. And kind enough not to really bring attention to Scott’s ridiculous slip of the tongue, not in a cruel way at least.

Scott grabs the napkins off the top of the box to set them aside, then notices--writing?

There’s a note. On a napkin.

> _Hey,_  
>  This is kinda cheesy but you are one supreme slice!  
>  (that would have worked better if you ordered a supreme but whatever)  
>  Yours truly,  
>  The Guy You Confessed Your Love To  
>  P.S. you sound pretty cute when you’re flustered 

It’s a good thing Scott’s apparently ‘cute when he’s flustered’, because flustered...is a pretty good description of what he is right now. He finds himself smiling into each slice he eats that night.


	2. this is kinda cheesy

It feels like five million degrees in the kitchen of _That’s Amore!_. Stiles ducks away whenever as he can get away with it, which is actually kind of often. After all, he’s not supposed to hang around the large ovens.

(You burn about four pizzas and your own arms and hands a bunch of times and apparently that’s enough to ban you for life.)

The only reason he never put up much of an argument in defense of his ego is _because_ of how it means he doesn’t have to stand at the open door, using a glorified toothpick to fish out burning hot dough slathered in hotter sauce. It’s a miracle he’s only burned himself a few times, really.

So for now, he is the self-appointed hero of the masses--if a group of, like, ten can be considered ‘the masses’. Whatever; he’ll look it up later. He’s on an important mission to make the environment more pleasant.

“Can we turn up the AC back there? I’m pretty sure Isaac’s clothes are literally melting off, and you know that’s gotta be against regulation.” He leans through the doorway of Bobby Finstock’s office, fingers tapping the frame on both sides.

“Stilinski, we’ve been open, what, a week?” Finstock replies.

“Three weeks and four da--”

“We don’t have enough of a _profit_ yet for you wimps to run up my electric bill over a little sweat!”

The tiny office, it must be said, feels about a comfortable sixty-five degrees. Stiles scowls.

“Seriously though? Don’t sweat on the pizzas.”

“Maybe if it wasn’t freakin’ _Venus_ in there--”

“Shut it! Just stop making me regret hiring you--and moving to this godforsaken town in the first place--and go back to work!” Finstock rolls his eyes, as if making sure his employees don’t faint and die is just such a hassle. Stiles takes a deep breath and pastes on a grin.

“Sure. No problem, boss,” he says, and turns to leave. He’ll just break into the thermostat himself, that’s all. Not-so-thrilling heroics, still on the menu!

Ha, menu.

*  


Stiles is drumming his fingers on the front counter and staring at the _when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, That’s Amore!_ inscribed on an empty pizza box. He’s suggested to Finstock that that may be a copyright infringement at least three times.

“Aren’t you on topping duty?” Isaac asks, and instantly adds, “I swear if you make your same lame topping joke one more time, I’m gonna turn _you_ into one.”

They both completely ignore the disgusted look on the face of the customer currently paying for her take-out. They also ignore Malia’s glare as she stands at the register.

“Neither of you should be here!” she hisses before giving the clearly-too-uptight-customer too much change. It happens any time Malia’s up front, and Stiles doesn’t understand why Finstock keeps putting her there when it’s losing them money.

Well, no. It’s probably because whenever she’s in the kitchen she eats half the pepperoni and tries to get the others to joust with breadsticks. Malia may be Stiles’s favorite coworker.

Isaac shrugs and sits on the counter. He barely has to jump to do so, because he’s a giant and Stiles hates him.

“Just waiting for the call,” Isaac says. He’s already put together more boxes than they’ll probably need for the next week, so in Isaac’s defense, he really doesn’t have anything to do until his next delivery. Stiles doesn’t mention this, because why would he defend the guy he’s privately appointed as his work nemesis?

Like fate, the phone rings.

Stiles, being Stiles, stands behind Malia to watch her put an order into the computer and--

And he knows that address. He remembers that address, because it’s hard to forget the address that came with a declaration of love, accidental or not. He kind of regretted the ridiculous note he added at the last second, but if that guy’s calling again it must not have gone over too badly. Right? Right.

Unless the note didn’t make it to him. He wouldn’t put coincidental sabotage past Isaac; Stiles mentally shakes his fist.

Anyway! Malia ends the call, automatically hipchecks Stiles away from her space, and opens her mouth to snarl at him, but Stiles interrupts.

“Sorry, break’s over!” He flings himself back to the kitchen.

His work ethic has just improved greatly. Sure, it occurs to him that this order might not even be from the same guy--the address account was under the name Melissa, so it easily could have been her on the other end of the phone. And sure, he could have cleared that up in a second by asking Malia, but he’s in too deep now.

Too deep in pizza toppings. The order’s the same as last time--pepperoni and green peppers, another check in the column for it _not_ being for whoever Melissa is--and Stiles is throwing that shit on dough like it’s free and won’t cause his boss to have a rage attack when he notices they’re running low before they should be.

Because Stiles is apparently a twelve-year-old girl at heart, he gets the bright idea to arrange the pepperoni in the shape of a slightly squished-looking flower. He puts the peppers under it like a stem before placing some more just for decoration.

Luckily no one else seems to notice what he’s doing or ask what the hell he’s thinking, because _he doesn’t know_. He doesn’t know why he wrote that note on a napkin; he doesn’t know why his face felt warm when he hung up the phone. He doesn’t know why he’s continuing this weird game that’s probably (definitely) only on his own end, but he’s doing it.

Content with this totally sound decision, he sends the pie to the oven.

...Where Isaac is standing, suddenly eager to do his job when he senses an opportunity to embarrass Stiles, probably. _Damn it_. He takes one look at the pizza and starts cackling like a stupid witch with a stupid face.

“Shut up, Lahey.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

Stiles considers asking Isaac if the guy from the other day was at all cute, but he still has his pride. ...Of course, he did just make a pepperoni flower for a total stranger. Maybe pride is the wrong word.

“I’ll tell loverboy you say hey,” Isaac says a few minutes later as he grabs his car keys and leaves with the box and a smirk.

Yeah, pride’s probably the wrong word.


	3. i never sausage things

If anything, the second time is weirder than the first.

It’s the same delivery guy, but this time he stares at Scott in a way some people might call friendly, but others would call _creepy and possibly cause to call the cops_.

“Uh. Thanks?” is all Scott manages to say as he takes the pizza tentatively, as though the other guy may suddenly attack.

The guy’s smirk grows, and when he hands Scott his change, all he says is, “Stiles says hey,” and leaves.

Stiles? Scott’s pretty sure he’d remember knowing someone called _Stiles_.

It isn’t until he opens the pizza box to see a clumsily placed together...flower? made from pepperoni and green peppers, that it connects. He ducks his head when he smiles even though no one is around to see.

*

After that, he can’t stop. He begins ordering pizza from _That’s Amore!_ at least, at _least_ once a week. He changes the order now and again, and a couple of times he doesn’t bother with pizza at all, just some of their breadsticks and a drink.

It doesn’t matter. Every time, his new--friend? Scott’s going with friend--sends along a message or something Scott didn’t even ask for. Sometimes there’s just extra pepperoni or pineapple, sometimes it’s a free side of mozzarella sticks.

It’s not always the same delivery guy, thank God, but most times it _is_. Scott finds out his name is Isaac, and Isaac seems to get way too much enjoyment out of watching Scott go red whenever he’s handed a note.

The notes.

They’re the best part of this whole weird thing. Sometimes they’re just a simple _hi_ and a smiley face, but sometimes...sometimes they’re more. Sometimes Stiles has scratched out corny jokes and haikus; sometimes he’s written enough to fill up three napkins, just describing his day and his thoughts on the last episode of The Daily Show.

He’s at the kitchen table on a Saturday, rereading a note where Stiles rambled on about a customer they got the other day that had tried to order a pizza with corned beef and cabbage--he apparently got real shifty-eyed when told that was next to impossible--when there’s a loud bang.

“Scott, why is there a mountain of pizza boxes stacked in the garage?” Scott’s mom asks from the door to said garage. She’s holding four stuffed grocery bags and Scott leaps up to help her with them, only slightly motivated by his hope that it will distract her from the question.

“I get hungry?” he tries, slightly sheepish grin in place.

His mom gives him a look. “I’d suspect a party, but I know that my son is way too smart to make the rest of the house spotless only to overlook such a little detail. Much too suspicious.”

Scott gives an embarrassed laugh and begins putting groceries away. In all honesty, he just hadn’t thought about getting rid of them. Yet. He was totally planning on it. Sometimes there are little drawings on the inside of the box tops and Scott finds them ridiculously endearing, so he might keep one or two of those. It’s not _that_ weird, right?

“Honey, seriously, why are you living on pizza? We have food, and I know you are not just too lazy to make anything yourself.” She folds the now-empty bags and sets them aside, then leans a hip against the counter, watching Scott carefully. “You live at home; you don’t have to survive on ramen and take-out like the movies say, I _promise_.”

Scott, who gets even more considerate when he’s trying to avoid a topic, goes to get his poor, overworked mother a glass of juice. She smiles, thanks him, then stares. Pointedly. Scott can’t outlast this; he was doomed from the start.

He sits back down at the table and explains.

*

“So your mom told me you’re in love.”

Scott, predictably, chokes on the sip of coffee he had just attempted to swallow, and shoots Allison a distraught look. She just grins and smacks Scott on the back, making sure he doesn’t _actually_ choke or anything, and waits.

“What? Why? When?”

“Ran into her the other day at the hospital--nothing’s wrong, I was just picking something up for my dad,” she adds quickly, because of course Scott was about to be concerned. “Anyway, she mentioned something about you possibly owning stock in a pizza place by now?”

“Oh my God,” Scott says, and it’s muffled from the way he’s totally facepalming right now. It’s not that he _regrets_ telling his mother, but he sure does wish she and his ex didn’t enjoy teasing him so much. “I don’t even know him, Allison.”

“Is that really how you’re gonna justify it?” Allison shakes her cup of chai gently to mix it between swallows, her eyebrow raised to accompany her ever widening smile. When Scott doesn’t answer, she adds, “Why don’t you just stop by the place and meet him?”

For some reason, the idea both excites and terrifies Scott. It would be easy enough, but part of him feels safe with what they already have--harmless flirting with some free food. And a couple phone calls that have quickly edged away from pizza orders and more towards the friendly kind of conversation that is usually not allowed at a place of business.

Okay. Even though the idea’s frightening, Scott _would_ like to meet Stiles for real.

“You don’t think that’d be creepy? Just showing up?”

Allison shakes her head. “Not if you two have been professing your love for this long now.”

Scott can feel himself turning red; he never told his mom that specific detail so it’s not like Allison could know. And as many times as it’s seemed to the contrary, she can’t actually read his mind.

“Right… So, um. I guess I could do that; I mean I don’t know what he looks like but how many Stileses can work in the same pla--”

“Did you say Stiles?”

Scott cocks his head, feeling a bit like a puppy, and nods.

“Lydia used to date a Stiles!” Allison digs her phone out, completely ignoring Scott’s internal panic. Lydia’s beautiful; why would Stiles want Scott after being with her? Allison brings up a picture and shoves the screen in his face and--oh, good. Stiles is absolutely adorable and Scott wants to lick his neck.

Allison isn’t laughing, so at least Scott didn’t say that last part out loud.

“Oh. Not bad,” Scott says instead, utterly failing at sounding nonchalant. He fails even more when he can’t help asking, “You said _used to_ , right?”

Okay, there’s the laughter.

He grins self-deprecatingly and changes the subject, asking Allison about her next archery tournament. She pretends not to be excited when she tells him the date.

“You’ll be there to see me kick ass, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Scott says honestly, and hands her a cookie.


	4. not mushroom for improvement

“It feels like the arctic tundra in here! Where are the sled dogs?!”

Stiles resolutely does not snicker at his boss’s frustration. Every day, Stiles has been lowering the temperature by like, two degrees. Barely noticeable, but the place doesn’t feel like they’re working on the surface of the sun anymore, and today is the first time Finstock’s actually spoken up.

For the record, it is currently a nice seventy-one degrees. Stiles was planning to take it a little further, but he supposes they can live with this.

“Maybe there’s a ghost, sir,” he says, very seriously. His face is the definition of sincere.

“Keep it up, Stilinski. I can use your pay check for all the coats I’ll have to buy to survive this winter hellscape!”

It goes against everything in Stiles’s instincts, but he stays quiet. As entertaining and melodramatic as his boss is, Stiles has no doubt that he’d actually follow through on that threat, mostly because Stiles’s pay checks have already been tampered with.

Apparently it’s frowned upon to give away free food to strangers one may or may not have a little crush on. Not that it’s stopped him. Nope, it’s just made him determined to be more creative, and also branch out a bit: the past Tuesday Scott called and didn’t even order anything but they talked for almost an hour. Tuesdays are always slow and no one complained, so what was the harm?

(After Scott had finished talking about how horrible his classes were, Stiles made a stupid joke about their talks being deeper than _That’s Amore!_ ’s deep dish pizza and had promptly wanted to leave the country. But Scott had actually _laughed_ and it was maybe the best thing Stiles had ever heard.)

His phone buzzes--Finstock tries to get people to stay off their phones on the job. It’s gone as well as one would expect, which means that everyone just keeps theirs on vibrate and goes about as usual. It’s a lot like class, really.

_What’s your lover boy’s name, again?_

Stiles rolls his eyes; he knew it was a bad idea to have told Lydia about the whole thing.

_Scott. Why?_

He’s in the middle of typing out a weak threat if she’s just going to make fun of him again when she replies--

_There’s a Scott in my bio lab. Obviously I can’t be sure he’s your Scott, but he does sort of seem like sunshine personified or whatever you said in your last sonnet dedicated to him._

Stiles’s eyes go wide; he knew it was a great idea to have told Lydia about this! There’s a weird, new feeling in his gut he might just call _hope_ , but he tries to squash it.

_Lydia. WHAT IS HIS LAST NAME?_

_Oh, here we go. It’s McCall; don’t stalk too hard, sweetheart._

“What’s with the grin?”

Stiles turns to see Malia peeling off her plastic gloves and trying to peer at his phone.

“Ooooh, Lydia finally tell you about your boytoy? I hear he’s cute,” she says with a waggle of her eyebrows. It somehow comes across like she’s copying Stiles’s own mannerisms. He would find it amusing if he weren’t so _betrayed_.

“Seriously?! You know, if I didn’t know that you guys just like to torture me, I’d say you were jealous and trying to keep me for yourselves.”

“Sorry, Stiles, the opportunity for _that_ particular threesome has passed.”

“I--what?” Stiles actually looks away from his phone at that. There could have been threesomes?

Malia completely ignores him and his gaping mouth as she gathers her stuff. She does at least say goodbye, but it’s tinged with _evil_ , he knows it.

His exes are the worst.

Or the best, he thinks as he looks up any and all Scott McCalls on Facebook.

*

It was a mistake.

The whole thing, from the flirting to the continued flirting to the stalking--all mistakes, mistake mistake mistake.

Because Scott McCall, as it turns out, is someone Stiles has seen in passing on campus. And he is more than cute. No one ever looks good in school-related photos or candids in the local paper. Except Scott McCall, apparently.

And why the hell was he even _in_ the local paper? Who gets an award for saving, like, ten boxes of drowning kittens?!

It’s possible that Stiles’s own mind is exaggerating, but he’s freaking out a little. Why is this guy _single_ , let alone adorably flirting over the phone with a stranger?

...What if he _wasn’t_ flirting? What if it was all on Stiles’s end and Scott thought he was a total creep but liked the free food?

“What if you shut the hell up and stop scaring the customers, Stilinski? Think you can do that?”

Stiles knocks over a cheese shaker--because Finstock appeared out of nowhere, thank you very much--and immediately glares at his coworkers for not warning him. Then, because he can’t help himself, he speaks.

“There are literally zero people here besides the ones that get paid for it.”

Someone smacks his arm.

“Well, you’re not gonna be paid anymore,” Finstock snaps and adds under his breath, “not that you’ve made many paychecks _at all_ recently.”

“Wh--are you firing me?!” Stiles can’t believe it. Which, considering the food he gives away, the work he doesn’t do, and the property he tampers with, shouldn’t _be_ hard to believe, and yet.

“Calm down!” says Finstock, who looks like he’s about to implode. Stiles doesn’t tell him to take his own advice. “Even though _you especially_ deserve it--I know about that phone call, by the way--no. You’re not getting ‘fired’, technically. The whole place is shutting down.”

Now everyone’s speaking up. Their boss pulls a whistle out of nowhere and blows it about a hundred times before it’s quiet again. Except for the ringing in their ears, obviously.

“ _Apparently_ our motto’s trademarked or whatever and we don’t make enough money to pay off the fines and change it.”

Once again, Stiles manages to stay silent and _not_ point out that he brought up the copyright issue like eighty times. Maybe later, after he’s at a safe distance. He’ll leave an anonymous note or something.

“Wait…” he starts to go pale, “how am I supposed to talk to Scott?! This job’s the only way he knows me! Oh my God, I knew I should’ve asked for his actual number, what the hell--”

He isn’t at a safe distance, and gets a whistle to the forehead and can’t even sue for employer-abuse.

*

It’s been a week. Maybe two. Okay, so it’s possible it’s been a month. A few times, Stiles almost managed to go up to Scott on campus, but Scott was always with other people. While Stiles doesn’t have a lot of social graces, he figures it’d be weird to introduce himself as ‘that pizza guy you may have been flirting with’.

But he can’t stop thinking about Scott. He feels incredibly shallow, but his crush has worsened a lot since he found out what the guy looked like. It wasn’t _just_ that; hearing from Lydia about what a sweet guy he seemed sure didn’t hurt.

And Stiles misses the admittedly juvenile note-passing and all that junk.

So one day he impulsively buys a pizza from one of _That’s Amore!_ ’s former best competitors--Scott’s favorite toppings included, naturally,--and ignores how weird this may seem.

And knocks on Scott McCall’s front door.


	5. i want a pizza dat ass

It’s the weekend, and Scott is lying on the couch, practicing the time-honored tradition of bored college students with no parties to go to: he’s flipping through TV channels and contemplating what he should make for dinner.

Awhile ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to order a pizza, but he hasn’t been able to since _That’s Amore!_ shut down. It’s not as pathetic-pining as it sounds; he’s just had a _lot_ of pizza in recent months and he’s kind of sick of it.

The break would be a relief, if he wasn’t disappointed in how he never really knew who Stiles was. It just feels sort of _unfair_ , like he was denied something. He’s slightly ashamed of himself for even feeling that way when it’s not like he had any right to the guy, but he’s owning it.

There’s a knock that brings him out of his thoughts, so he rolls right off the couch, accidentally kicking the coffee table in the process, and makes his way sleepily to the door. It’s opened to a guy holding a pizza box and for a second, Scott actually wonders if he _did_ order out by habit and just forgot.

“Uh. Hey,” the guy says in a familiar voice. His eyes are darting from Scott’s face to the pizza in his hands, to somewhere beyond Scott’s shoulder and starting over again. “You’re...Scott McCall, right?”

“Yeah? Do I…”

It hits him, then, that Scott knows this guy. Eyes finally focusing, he takes a moment to look closer, at the other guy’s messy hair and pale skin, at the lean lines of his body. By the time his eyes hit the darkening spots of pink in his cheeks, Scott’s grinning. His once-over did that.

“Stiles?”

Stiles’s eyes widen for a second, then he gives a shaky little laugh and holds up the pizza box like it’s a new car or something. Scott still wants to lick his neck.

“Surprise! That--yeah, that’s me, I. Wow, I can’t believe you remembered, actually; it’s been like a month…”

Scott frowns. “Since your place closed? Dude, it’s been less than two weeks.”

Stiles blinks about five million times, looking like he’s doing some impossible math in his head. Scott shuffles his weight on his feet and blinks back.

Apparently whatever conclusion Stiles comes to is satisfactory, because he sort of shakes his whole body like he’s actually, physically moving on and says, “Same thing--so _hey_ , I brought you a pizza! Not as good as ours was, though. Actually, I have no idea if that’s true; I haven’t tried it, and you know, I don’t need to be loyal to a place that doesn’t even exist anymore so can I come in or have I traumatized you by showing up at your house out of nowhere?”

Stiles squints, clearly waiting for an actual answer, so Scott gives his own shaky laugh and steps aside. He doesn’t really care how weird this is, or if it’s smart to invite a total stranger in. He can handle himself, asthma or no asthma, and Stiles doesn’t feel like a stranger anyway.

Stiles smiles in what seems like relief, and his arm brushes Scott’s when he passes. Scott grins rather goofily at the blue jeep in his driveway before shutting the door and heading towards the kitchen.

He’s feeling pretty good about his instincts here--the more they talk, the more it seems they have in common, and the things they disagree on aren’t deal-breakers of any sort. Stiles has a way of making himself at home and Scott feels like they’ve known each other for years. They talk about their parents, and how weird it is that they have so many classes near each other but haven’t ever met before now.

(“You know, we could’ve been texting all this time instead of jamming up your work phone,” Scott points out as they’re finally exchanging numbers.

“I’m pretty sure that’s why we ran out of business,” Stiles says, and only grins when Scott laughs.)

By the time they’ve finished eating (the pizza at _That’s Amore!_ really was better, and they joke about opening their own place because tomato slices on white bread would have to taste better than what they just ate), they’ve started talking about video games and Stiles has challenged Scott to a Mario Kart tournament so they’re going upstairs.

Scott’s not egotistical or anything, but he can read people pretty well. He _might_ have written off all the note and phone flirting as nothing serious, if Stiles hadn’t appeared at his house so suddenly. Scott knows this is a mutual thing.

That’s why, after Stiles finishes looking over Scott’s walls like he’s memorizing them and drops himself ungracefully to the floor, back against the bed, Scott joins him instead of sitting at a distance. He hands Stiles a controller, smiling softly. He can’t look away.

“I like your nose,” he says without thinking, and internally winces. Who compliments a person’s _nose_? “I just mean. It’s cute. You’re cute.”

Okay, so Scott’s confident. It doesn’t mean he’s _cool_.

But Stiles is staring at him like he’s just heard an impromptu marriage proposal and says, “you are way too hot to be single.”

Scott gives a surprised laugh and figures that’s a pretty obvious opening, so he leans in. It’s a soft kiss, chaste and quick, but he pulls away slowly and stays close. It makes it easy to see that Stiles’s eyes have gone even wider.

“Oh,” he says, and closes the distance between them again.

It turns out that Scott really likes kissing Stiles. With some people it takes a moment to sink into it, for the click--that moment when a kiss goes from pleasant-but-awkward to _wow_. This, though, this feels like an extension of how Scott felt like he’s known Stiles for years.

They fit like all the cliches about puzzle pieces and completing each other, which would be an embarrassing thing to even think if they didn’t currently have each others tongues in their mouths. Stiles’s hand is in Scott’s hair and Scott presses closer, his own hands curling into the sides of Stiles’s shirt. 

Then he pulls away, catching his breath and asking, “is this okay?” 

Stiles gives him a look that suggests he thinks Scott is an idiot, but Scott just raises his eyebrows, waiting for a verbal answer. Stiles sighs, and it makes Scott smile because he can already read the other guy so well.

“ _Yes_ , Scott. I’ve kinda wanted to make out with you since that first phone call, so if we could just get back to that, I’d be happy to show you how happy I can be to see you.”

Scott barks out a surprised laugh, then says without even thinking, “wow, that really _is_ amore!”

The blank look he gets in return is almost enough to make him regret ever speaking any words, ever, even though this relationship was _founded_ on cheesy jokes. But then Stiles breaks into a smile.

“Guess you’re right, ‘cause believe it or not, I still want into your pants after that.” Stiles lurches forward to kiss Scott again, then pauses. “Maybe _more_ than before, actually.”

Sounds about perfect to Scott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(shortly thereafter, Scott finally got to lick Stiles's neck.)_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Fanmix] This is Kinda Cheesy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3928714) by [dapatty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/pseuds/dapatty)




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